Page 21 of A Gold Medal in Love

CHAPTER

NINE

IMANI

I come backto a blessedly empty room. Lucky for me, Blake must still be at prelims. Hopefully, they watch some of the other teams, review some tape, or even just go for a drink—anything to keep them out of this room.

Practice today was dogshit. I almost feel like I’m regressing. Coach certainly treats me like I am. We’re of the same mind—that anything less than gold is a loss. If I were to call Mummy, she would talk some sense into me… but can I really afford not to listen to Coach right now? After all, I agree with him. I crave the gold so much that I fall asleep with the taste of metal in my mouth every night. I absolutely cannot go home without destroying the competition and bumping Katya to silver.

I make sure the door is locked so that I can have some advance warning if Blake slips through the door, and then I strip so I can look over my problem areas in the bathroom mirror.

I showered in the facility and made sure to weigh myself before I was waterlogged. I’m still not at my target weight. I feel like the needle never dips down to that precious fucking number. Every day I weigh myself, hoping for at least a pound less. Since cutting even more calories upon my arrival in Milan, I’ve seenonepound come off. It’s not enough, and I’m clearly stagnating.I either need to practice more or eat less—maybe both. Forcing my body into cooperating is the only way I’ll get off this plateau, and if I’m dizzy or discombobulated for a while, I’ll recover. Everyone knows that the body is resilient and eventually gets used to a calorie deficit. So I’ll stay patient and keep on course.

Looking in the mirror, I run my hands over my visible ribs, down to my protruding hipbones. Growling, I harshly pinch the cellulite on my thighs, the baby fat still coating my stomach, and the saddlebags torturing me on my hips. I work so hard on this body, and this is how it repays me—I’m still so fucking fat.

Interrupted from my pep talk by the key in the lock, I slam the bathroom door closed and hastily throw on my short skirt, wrap sweater, and legwarmers. I smooth my hair into its typical bun and try to be casual as I go into the shared room.

Blake is noisily tossing things from their gear bag into their closet while they snap their fingers and bop their head to a beat only they can hear.

I’m still shaken from whatever the fuck happened in that bathroom last night, but I guess my curiosity about them is too piqued for me to stop the “What song is in your head?” question that comes out of my mouth.

They abruptly turn and flash a brilliant smile at me. “Hey, Cupcake. How do you know there’s a song in my head?”

My lips quirk in an almost-smile. “You don’t realize that you’re practically a one-person show right now?” I tease Blake. “You’re dancing.”

“Nah, I’m stimming,” they smile.

“Stimming?” I ask in confusion.

“Totes. A lot of neurodivergents have to get out their excess energy. It also helps calm our nervous system when there’s a lot of external stimulation.Andsome of us have to be in constant motion. Stimming,” Blake recaps.

“Hm,” I muse, not wanting to be a bitch about this. “May I ask what sort of neurodivergent you are?”

“Sure, Cupcake. I’m ADHD.” They smile again, clearly not feeling one iota of shame about this, and I’m glad they don’t.

“So… no song?” I clarify.

“Oh… well… I guess there is a song. I have ‘Last Girls At The Party’ stuck in my head,” Blake nods.

“I don’t know that one,” I shrug.

“The Beaches?” They prompt, giving me a band name.

“Oh, sure. Lesbian band… white girls, right?” It dawns on me.

“Yeah! That’s them,” Blake confirms.

“Cool, cool. Yeah, I’ve never listened to them much.” I cough into my fist. The awkwardness of this is creeping in on me now.

“What do you listen to?” They ask, with what appears to be genuine curiosity.

I scoff. “I’m a queer Jamaican woman. Griff, of course. But seriously, a bunch of shit. I have to keep my songs for routines fresh.”

Blake laughs. “Respect. Love her. I also love ‘a bunch of shit,’” they tease. Before I can even process what’s happening, Blake barks, “Aha! The ice queen Imani is smiling. Look, y’all! I made her smile! Alert the media!”

My smile turns into a fresh scowl as I fold my arms. “Don’t remind me. Maybe if they talked to me the way you talked to me, it wouldn’t be a fucking issue.”

“What if you pretended you were talking to me?” They cock their head.